


wide awake in the glow

by marit



Series: uncover the light [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Feelings, M/M, Pre-War, Steve Rogers' ode to Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 16:06:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6201916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marit/pseuds/marit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve's life with Bucky was written in those quiet moments in spaces in Brooklyn and Europe. Bucky could do no wrong, and Steve could do nothing but.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wide awake in the glow

**Author's Note:**

> I _might_ want to write this from Bucky's perspective. I haven't decided yet. I have made this part of a series so people can subscribe if they are interested, but I cannot guarantee that will happen because it depends on whether I can work it to make it not repetitive. 
> 
> I wrote 6000 words of this in one day so please excuse any typos. I'll probably catch them later. 
> 
> Title song and one to set the mood for this: [White Blood by Oh Wonder](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T6esRjpMjNc). 
> 
> I didn't use the "Major Character Death" warning because we all know that's not what happened, but Bucky does "die" in this. So does Steve's mom. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

He first met Bucky Barnes when he was six. 

They were in the same class, and he was whip-smart and fast and messy-haired and all the things Steve wasn’t. He spent all of his time with Thomas McKinney, who was the tallest boy in their class and had hair so blond it was almost entirely white, and Peter Papadakis, whose words were tinged with the Greek accent of his parents. The three of them were confident and loud but still polite, not like Vincent Smith and his group, who sneered at Steve with under-their-breath comments they knew Steve could still hear. He punched Smith right in the nose five months into school because he told his mom he would ignore it and he only managed to last that long. It was the first time he full-out tried to hit someone, and it was a remarkable one to start with--the blood running from Smith’s nose startled them both enough to stop it there, that time. Steve just remembered ending up shaky and scared, but Bucky apparently saw it all and later told him that that was when he knew Steve had it in him to take on the whole world. Steve thought that was probably a lie, but liked it nevertheless.

He didn’t spend time with just Bucky until he was nine. He’d talked to him a bit before that, but it was in passing. Steve had no friends, not really, although he spoke to a couple people off and on while at school. He wasn’t reclusive, but he was shy and sickly and angry at the world, and it made people dislike and pity him at the same time--an awful combination when you’re young and trying to find your place among people. Bucky didn’t hate him and he didn’t hate Bucky, so sometimes they ended up in the same group on the playground until either Steve made someone angry or someone made Steve angry and he was shunted out of the group for a little while, at least until some new sort of game came up and he could worm his way back in again.

They were nine, and it wasn’t their first time talking to one another but it was their first time with just the two of them, no one else around. It was the story that all the histories latched onto, even if it wasn’t the first time they actually met--how could it be, really, when they went to the same school? It was an inconsistency that everyone was willing to look past for the romance of it all, though. Steve wasn’t entirely sure how everyone learned about it anyway. An old neighbor, maybe, or that time Bucky announced to the whole bar, grinning, “Knew he was the guy for me when I went to save him from some bullies stealing his money and he hit me in the chin instead,” and slung one arm around Steve’s shoulders, pulling him close and warm against his side. Bucky could get away with that, announcing it to a room full of soldiers and their guests in London. If Steve had done it, he’d have never gotten away with it. It was seen as a jest from Bucky, though, for all that it wasn’t really by then, not for a long time. Peggy had watched with too-knowing eyes and Steve had had to look away while a girl slid in close to Bucky’s other side. 

Steve hadn’t meant to hit Bucky, though. Mr. Amberg had given Steve a bit of money for helping him unload and reload the boxes at his shop over the past week. It was probably mostly out of pity but it was something, anyway, something to bring home to his mom who was working too hard and had always worked too hard. He saw the pitying looks people gave her, overheard Mrs. Kaufman saying, “Poor Mrs. Rogers, with no husband and a son that isn’t likely to live to see a one in front of his age,” and Mrs. Gardner humming sad agreement.

He was on his way home with the tiny amount he had earned, proud for all that it had been small, when Vincent Smith seemed to appear out of nowhere. He’d been Steve’s constant, annoying shadow since they started school, disappearing sometimes for weeks and then reappearing. No matter what he seemed to do, Steve couldn’t get rid of him. He wasn’t willing to entirely back down, but he’d tried it in bits and pieces here and there. 

So when Smith popped up with his friends beside him, Steve tried to resist the urge to put his hand to the coins tucked into his pocket because that would show he had something to hide, but, of course, he failed. His hand made an aborted motion toward his pocket that Smith picked up on, because for all that he was a bully he wasn’t stupid. 

“What’ve you got there, Rogers?” he asked, voice high with faked innocence. 

“Nothing,” Steve answered--too quickly. Stupid. He knew better. His heart rate picked up and he had to fight the urge to bolt. He wasn’t the type to give in like that, to run, but he could feel the hope of getting his mom to smile slipping through his fingers as he watched Smith take two steps closer. 

“Doesn’t seem like nothing,” was the snide reply from one of the friends, Jerry Something, Steve couldn’t remember, and stupid, stupid, his hand had gone to his pocket again like a giant target for them to aim for. 

And Steve gave in. He turned to run but Smith was faster and larger, his hand snaking out to grab Steve’s arm, lurching him off balance and back around. One foot slipped against the rain-slick ground, and only Smith’s hand on his arm kept him upright at all. It made the others laugh, though, and Steve flush with embarrassment. 

He wrenched his arm away, taking a step back to catch his balance. He was torn between the anger and the embarrassment and the need to fight, and the urge to run so his gesture to his mom wouldn’t be ruined by his battered frame. She’d be more concerned about him then, too wrapped up in him getting in a fight again to be happy over his gift. 

Smith grabbed his arm again before he could make up his mind, and Steve swung with his other arm automatically, his fist landing ineffectually against Smith’s upper arm. 

“Hey, stop that,” Jerry said, his voice affected with confidence and swagger in a way that must have come from watching his older brother fight, and he grabbed Steve’s free arm before he could aim for Smith again. He was now caught between the two of them, so he kicked out at Jerry’s shin as his hand reached out to Steve’s pocket. 

He grunted in pain and let go of Steve’s arm, allowing Steve to turn enough to aim another kick at Smith. It caused him to slip like Steve had earlier, sending them both falling to the cement in an ungraceful heap. Smith was yelling at him but Steve wasn’t even taking the words in as they grappled for nothing, really, just for the anger and the fight of it. 

Someone grabbed at his shoulder to pull him away and Steve swung his elbow back on instinct, making contact with someone. 

“Stop, don’t, I’m helping you, you nitwit,” whoever it was said, managing to drag Steve up to his feet. 

When he finally figured out what was going on, Steve was standing a few inches behind Bucky. 

“What’s going on, Vin?” Bucky asked, sounding simply curious.

“Rogers just came at us, Barnes,” Smith answered, pushing himself up off the ground as well. They were both soaked now, having apparently rolled straight into a puddle at some point. 

“Rogers wouldn’t do that,” he answered. “I bet there was just some confusion. Right, Steve?” 

Bucky turned to him, raising his eyebrows expectantly, and Steve was so caught off-guard by both the support and being directly addressed by his first name that he couldn’t think of an answer fast enough, just looked back at Bucky uselessly.

“See?” Bucky said, turning back like that was answer enough. “Neither of you know what’s going on.” 

Smith just looked vaguely confused by the turn of events, which Steve could sort of sympathize with. “I’ll see you later, Barnes,” he just answered instead after a somewhat awkward pause. He and his friends left, leaving Steve still trying to catch his breath and Bucky standing staring off toward the end of the street.

“All right?” he asked finally, turning back to Steve. Steve realized he had been giving him a chance to catch his breath, and he was glad, at least, that his asthma hadn’t kicked in. 

“I’m fine,” he answered shortly, straightening out his clothes.

“You’re a mess,” Bucky pointed out, but it wasn’t said cruelly, just a simple statement of fact. It rankled nevertheless. Steve’s mom was going to be so mad if he had wrecked his only good coat, and he suddenly wanted to cry. It was childish and embarrassing, but there was no way she wasn’t going to know he’d gotten into a fight now. 

“You got me right in the chin,” Bucky said after a moment when it became obvious Steve wasn’t going to answer. He rubbed at his jaw. “Got a strong elbow.”

“You called me a nitwit,” Steve answered for lack of anything better to say.

To his shock, Bucky blushed red. “My sister picked it up somewhere. Won’t stop saying it. Dad hates it. Guess it just slipped out.” He shrugged, looking away and back. 

There was another silence, and then, “You want to--” Bucky said, at the same time Steve said, abrupt, “I should go.” 

“Oh, okay.” Bucky looked away again. “Right.” 

“Bye,” Steve said, awkward. 

Bucky went the opposite direction with a nod and a wave, leaving Steve to stand watching his back before turning home.

*****

Embarrassment kept Steve away from Bucky for months. He only realized later that he hadn’t even thanked him, and that shame combined with everything else meant Steve found himself utterly unable to talk to him.

Until, suddenly, he could again. 

He was ten. At age ten, Steve became friends with Bucky, but he didn’t realize it at first.

It started slow. They ended up the last two of a group of boys that had all headed home from school at the same time, Steve trailing just behind because he was trying, he was, he told his mom he’d try, and he wasn’t doing great at it but he was _trying_. The others had all headed off in different directions, leaving just Steve and Bucky and silence. 

That’s how it began--quiet walks home together. Bucky lived further than Steve so he always waved goodbye at Steve’s door. And then they started talking about school, then the other kids, then the neighborhood and gossip and baseball and Bucky’s family and the things Steve’s mom would tell him about her work. 

“Who’s that?” she asked one afternoon.

“Just Bucky,” Steve had answered, not really thinking it was anything worthwhile, tramping up the stairs ahead of her.

She watched Bucky leave down the street, a soft smile settling in before she followed Steve up.

“The Lynch kids found a puppy. You wanna come see it? It’s cute,” Bucky asked one afternoon, no shame in his visible excitement over the dog.

So that was the next step--from walking to talking to a puppy that made Steve sneeze but Bucky couldn’t stop cooing over, looking up excitedly at Steve so often that something sort of hopeful but cautious settled into Steve’s chest.

It was that caution that still held Steve away, though, that made him restrict his time spent with Bucky outside their walks home so that Bucky couldn’t get sick of his company. He left himself at a distance because it was safer, but Bucky kept approaching anyway. 

Lucy Brown of all people, a girl who died at the age of 19 from an accidental fall and would never be remembered by the history books and only by their neighbors as a tragedy, was the one who could really be credited with Steve and Bucky being close friends. If it hadn’t been for her, Steve probably would have kept pulling away until Bucky just gave in, let go of the end of that rope Steve clung so closely to but kept at such a length. 

It was a simple question: “Where’s your friend?” She said it so easily, like it was so obvious: “Your friend.” 

She continued on, something about Bucky owing her younger brother something or another from some bet, but Steve was barely listening because “friend.” Other people saw them as friends, and Steve had spent so long--months, now--denying that it was even a possibility. But apparently it was happening, and he had remained completely oblivious. He felt like an idiot, but oddly hopeful, too. 

It took him almost a full week to broach the topic, a week of trying to find the perfect opportunity to make the question seem less awkward. He finally found it one day on their walk home. He chose the moment when he was close to his apartment so that if he got an answer to the negative he could make his escape quickly. 

“Are we friends?” he finally blurted out, blushing horrendously. He wanted to take the words back immediately despite all of his preparation. He was 10 and too old for this, supposed to know how to pick a friend out from an acquaintance.

Bucky turned to him, and his expression was an example of incredulity. “Of course we are,” he answered, serious but a thread of astoundment underneath. There was no pity, though, no sympathy for the boy who didn’t know how to tell if someone was his friend without asking. Steve was so grateful for that.

“I’d say you’re near my best friend,” Bucky continued with the ease of any child who declares someone their best friend, walking backwards now because Steve hadn’t been able to stop his forward momentum home, just in case. “I know I’m scary, but you don’t worry about that.” He grinned, glancing behind him to avoid Mrs. Jones and her baby. 

“I don’t know if I’ve ever had a best friend,” Steve admitted, ignoring Bucky’s jest. 

Something close to anger flickered across Bucky’s face, and Steve couldn’t place why but didn’t think it was directed at him. It was there and gone so fast that he didn’t feel like he could even remark on it. 

“Well,” Bucky said, then seemed to not know what else to say. It was fair enough. Steve’s words were stupid, said unthinkingly. A beat, and then: “You’re not doing bad at it so far.” 

Something glowed in Steve when he got home. A friend, he thought. A _best_ friend. He could hold onto that.

*****

For all that Steve trusted Bucky and his word, he knew that things changed. He was always expecting something to happen that would tear them apart. For all that he tried he was never able to make other friends--acquaintances sure, people he spoke to at school yes, but never anyone else he spent time with outside school.

Years passed. Somehow Bucky remained. 

And then the beginning of what the histories didn’t know, that for all the jokes and the encounters they managed to keep a secret: They kissed for the first time at the age of 15, old enough to know that they shouldn’t but young enough to be brave anyway. 

Steve, to probably both of their surprise, was the one to initiate it. 

They were at Steve’s apartment, because Bucky’s was usually bustling and noisy and he admitted, like it was shameful, that he often wanted to be in the quiet of Steve’s home. 

What was important was that Bucky turned, laughing at something Steve had said offhand, and he was close, so close, and Steve found himself leaning forward like he was being pulled toward him and unable to resist. He wasn’t sure what lead to that moment. It wasn’t something he thought about then or even any time previously. It just happened. It was awkward and unpracticed and it simply happened without forethought.

When he pulled back, Bucky was staring at him wide-eyed and surprised, and apologies were already falling from Steve’s mouth. He scrambled back, shaky and wide-eyed himself. What was he doing? he wondered. How could he? he thought. What was wrong with him?

And under that: You ruined this. You ruined it. 

He was trying not to panic, halfway across the room already before he registered that Bucky was talking. “No. No, no, don’t--come back here. Where are you going?” he was saying. It halted Steve’s movements. He had expected Bucky to yell or be gone already, not that. Not him pushing himself to his feet to approach Steve like he was the one who might run. Not him putting his hand on Steve’s arm and walking around to face him. 

“Please don’t leave,” Bucky said as Steve stared at him. To Steve’s astonishment, he was pale but didn’t look angry. He looked more frantically worried than anything, sort of like how Steve felt. He seemed to hesitate, searching for something in Steve’s face before he leaned forward and down just enough to capture his mouth again. It was still awkward a bit, both of them still too hesitant, but it was better. 

“All right?” Bucky asked, still standing close.

Steve nodded because he didn’t trust his voice. He didn’t trust _this_. It felt too right already, like things were falling into place. It wasn’t something he was used to, even at 15 and still too young to know half of what the world could throw at him.

It took nearly a year for them to progress beyond that, for all of the furtive kisses taken in moments Steve’s apartment was otherwise empty. They were so, so careful to act the same everywhere else, but Steve could feel it unfurling in his chest and didn’t know how everyone else couldn’t notice the same. He was almost giddy with it at times. 

The first time he came with someone else happened too fast, Bucky’s hand down his pants and Steve gasping at the ceiling. By the time he could fumble for Bucky, he was almost there already, his own hand moving against his length and it barely took the touch of Steve’s fingers for him to follow. He collapsed onto Steve after, laughing, his mouth wet against the skin of Steve’s neck. Steve couldn’t help grinning at the ceiling at his laughter. It should’ve been strange, maybe, awkward and uncomfortable and maybe shameful, but it wasn’t. Bucky was holding the hand he had been using above them toward the headboard, his other twining into Steve’s hair as they both calmed down, Bucky still smiling into Steve’s neck and Steve’s breaths slowing to normal. 

“We’ll have to keep doing that,” Bucky said, his voice muffled by his position. 

Steve laughed, because it was ridiculous and playful and Bucky sounded so pleased. “I’m fine with that,” he answered.

Bucky ran his lips sloppily over Steve’s, making him laugh again, and then levered himself up one-handed to go wash. 

And that’s how it began: Despite the poverty, Steve’s sicknesses, the secrets and the sneaking around, they were blissful and young and _happy_. For years. Steve didn’t know how to accept that but he tried to, so hard, or it would all slip away. 

They laughed and spent so much time doing so many things together, outside the apartment and in. They explored the city as best they were able with little money. Bucky forced him to sometimes meet up with other people, faking it enough for the both of them while Steve still bumbled through any social situation. Bucky had other friends; Steve still did not, not really, although he met some people at his short stint at art school that he thought might be close enough. It was enough to keep their cover, anyway, to stop people from wondering at how they never spent time with anyone else. 

They kissed, still secret, still only at Steve’s apartment when his mom was at work and wouldn’t be returning for hours, careful to never both fall asleep. It was a danger they both knew and took seriously but didn’t obey. Careful, quiet, Bucky biting against his own arm as Steve took him apart with his mouth, Steve learning how to stay silent, gasping breaths the loudest he let himself get.

They laughed, and they kissed, and it didn’t slip away though Steve thought it could at any moment.

*****

Steve got older, and his mom got sicker.

“It might not be what you’re thinking,” Bucky said, even then unable to name it. “You know how you are when you get sick--that cough sticks for months, right? But it always goes away? She could be the same, Stevie. Give it time. Don’t get too worried.” 

But time didn’t help. It was slow, because his mom knew what to do--it was her job after all, to know what to do--but she got worse anyway. 

And then one day in summer, she couldn’t go to work anymore and it happened too quickly after that.

“I couldn’t hide it anymore, darling,” she said, pushing his hair back off his face. Gentle, quiet, serene for all her now apparent frailty, this day she stopped trying to hide it all. “I’m sorry.” 

Steve didn’t know how to take her apology, how to explain that none of this was her fault at all. If anything it was his for taking up all her money so that she couldn’t get consistently good treatment. For some reason he was ashamed, guilty that he couldn’t take better care of her when she had done nothing but take care of him his whole life. He didn’t tell Bucky, and held the information close to his chest where it might remain unreal. His mom didn’t want guests, he said. She was working less but still strong, he said, and Bucky looked suspicious but didn’t question him. 

He didn’t see Bucky for weeks, all through Christmas and into the next year. He missed him desperately but was scared that if he saw him, he’d fall apart. The doctors his mom had worked with got her a spot at the hospital, and they moved her there on December 21. “It’s the Winter Solstice, Steve,” she had said, her voice weak but relatively cheery. “A good time for new beginnings.” 

He worked. He worked and he worked any job he could find as long as he could. He’d never had so much money before, and almost all of it went to the doctors who got her a spot at the hospital she had worked at when she became too sick to stay in the apartment. He prayed he didn’t get sick himself, until January when he could feel something inching up and dragging at his limbs. He had been remarkably healthy all the previous year, only the usual things that he couldn’t ever get rid of bothering him at all. It was only time, after all. He’d been lucky for too long. 

“Hey, Steve,” Bucky said, somehow sneaking up behind him as he walked home from a long day. His head felt foggy and unaware of his surroundings. It wasn’t a good sign.

Steve startled and forced his voice into even casualness. “Hi, Buck.” He continued on his way, Bucky falling into step beside him. He was so close. He just had to make it the one block and up the stairs and he’d be home and he could sleep this off. He’d be fine in the morning, he told himself. He had to be. He just needed to sleep.

“Haven’t seen you for awhile,” Bucky said after a moment. He sounded hurt and worried, and it made Steve’s chest clench in guilt. 

“Been busy,” he said, with a shrug that he hoped seemed relaxed.

“Martin came and told me you seemed sick the last couple of days,” Bucky said. 

“Martin can mind his own business,” Steve answered, all pretense at casual friendliness slipping out of his words, which came out snappish. He was almost home. It would be fine soon. Everything would be fine. His throat felt thick and he wasn’t sure if it was from sickness or frustration or fear or nerves or what. 

He paused at the bottom of the stairs to his apartment building. “Sorry,” he forced out. “Just tired. I’ll find you tomorrow, all right?” He tried to smile and make it seem real, but could tell from the feeling of it that it fell flat. Oh well. He’d deal with it later.

He turned to go up the stairs and was nearly halfway to the door when Bucky called up, “I went to see your mom.” 

Steve froze, feet on two different steps. His fingers dug into the railing so hard that the tips turned white as his mind frantically turned the words around, tried to come up with any interpretation that meant he hadn’t failed, that he had managed to keep Bucky from this burden. He couldn’t. He couldn’t think of anything to say either, because now that Bucky knew he was also going to be angry Steve kept it from him. He had his reasons, although he found them hard to articulate, but he had known since the beginning that not telling Bucky would anger him. He had done it anyway, a deliberate bit of cruelty that he thought would be hard to forgive.

“Why didn’t you want to tell me?” Bucky asked. He had moved closer without Steve even noticing. “You’ve been avoiding me since the summer.” 

“I--” Steve started, and then his throat closed off and he couldn’t answer. He stared at the next step up, the one his left foot would go to next. He just had to get to his apartment. He needed to sleep and it would be better in the morning. 

He heard Bucky sigh, and then he moved around in front of Steve. 

“Come on,” he said, gently but firmly removing Steve’s hand from its tight grip on the railing. “You eaten yet? Let’s see what you’ve got for food in this old place.”

He got Steve inside, and as soon as the door was shut turned to him and pulled him in close. “You could’a told me ages ago,” he said into Steve’s hair. His arms hung limply at his side because now that he was here in his apartment, and now that Bucky was there in his apartment with him, he was suddenly utterly exhausted, not sure how to react normally or what to do with his own body. He felt heavy and sick and weary and so helpless he didn’t know what to do with it. 

“I missed you,” Bucky said after another moment. “Don’t do that, all right? I’m not good at missing you.”

Steve finally raised his arms, wrapped them around Bucky’s waist and let himself breathe him in. His coat smelled like him and winter, and was cold from the weather outside. It was good, though, and Steve could feel himself relaxing into Bucky despite his best intentions. 

“I missed you, too,” he finally admitted into his the coolness of his coat. It felt like something he shouldn’t be saying, a secret that he should be holding close. He found once he said it, though, that he couldn’t deny it at all. In fact, it was the opposite. It made him feel it all the more intensely, that and everything else. “God, Buck,” he said, pulling him in as close as possible, his hands gripping the fabric of his coat. He breathed out and it was shaky. 

“Steven Grant Rogers, Father Arthur would be _shocked_ ,” Bucky reprimanded, a teasing note to his voice. He leaned back just enough to look at Steve’s face but not enough to dislodge his grip. He placed a hand on either side of his face, holding him in place when all Steve wanted to do was hide against that look in his eyes, that look of intense worry and sadness and no anger at all. Something in Steve wanted to collapse in relief at that. It might come later, but it wasn’t there now. He wasn’t angry right now. 

“I can’t say this’ll be fine,” Bucky began, and Steve was glad for it, that he wasn’t giving false platitudes and hope. “But let me be here with you, yeah?” 

And some part of him still wanted to protest, to pull away and save Bucky from this. It wasn’t his battle. This was Steve’s life, and he was responsible for it. But the other part could see the pleading in Bucky’s eyes that just asked him to agree, so for once he pushed that aside and just nodded. 

Bucky released a breath Steve hadn’t even been aware he was holding, some of the tension leaving the muscles under Steve’s hands. “Good,” he said. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to Steve’s forehead. “Good,” he repeated, so quiet, a kiss landing on Steve’s nose before he tilted his chin up enough to meet his mouth. Slow, careful. He tried not to melt into it. “Yes?” Bucky asked, still quiet, pulling away, and Steve had no choice but to nod again.

This time he tilted up to kiss Bucky again. “I’m gonna get you sick,” he said eventually, into the air between them when they both pulled away to breathe. 

“You’re actually sick? Your life is a disaster, Rogers,” Bucky said, shoving Steve away gently, not even hard enough to begin to dislodge his hold. It was light and teasing and everything Steve was used to with Bucky, and he almost wanted to cry from the relief. 

“Come on,” Bucky said, landing one final, promising kiss against Steve’s left cheekbone. “Let’s get you some food.”

*****

Steve’s mom died only a couple short months later.

More time passed. Somehow Bucky was still here. Steve got so sick that summer that he lost every job connection he had, and Bucky found them an apartment together because there was little other alternative when Steve’s landlord came pounding at his door for a payment he couldn’t make. It made Steve feel so guilty, that, dragging down Bucky further with him because his body was too weak to let him do anything for himself. 

Despite his best intentions, he got progressively more short-tempered. He struggled against it so hard, the heaviness constantly pulling him down and against everything he cared about. He watched annoyance flash across Bucky’s face and then disappear with forced cheer, a joke or kind words that Steve didn’t deserve to be the recipient of.

And then one day it broke. 

It was, to be sure, a particularly bad day, the type no one would believe him if he later talked about it. He woke up barely able to get out of bed, not because of any sort of physical illness that he could tell but just because he felt _heavy_. His limbs felt leaden like the worst type of flu, and he missed his mom like an ache in his chest. Bucky was already at work and he missed him too, for no good reason except that he had felt distant recently through Steve’s own fault. He pushed and he pulled and it had to be exhausting. 

He got up and he went to work, where he lasted five minutes before Mr. Dunn pulled him aside to tell him he lacked the money to keep him on and sent Steve and William Merchant home. The fact that he wasn’t alone in his misery wasn’t very helpful. And then he ended up punched right in the face just because he told some guys to leave a terrified-looking man holding a baby alone, because he had felt some sort of weird solidarity with this man holding a baby who was clearly also having a bad day.

Bucky arrived home hours after Steve, who was still sprawled against their worn couch where he had fallen immediately after getting through the door. He knew he should move, maybe make some food, but it seemed like too much effort and he just wanted to stew. He wanted to sit for a bit and think about how miserable his life was before he had to get on with it. 

“What happened?” he asked as soon as he came far enough into the room to spot Steve, because of course he wouldn’t let it lie. 

“Nothing,” was Steve’s sullen, obviously not truthful response.

“You’ve got blood on your face.” And Steve did sit up at that because he hadn’t even realized. Something must have cut across his cheek, and sure enough, when he raised his fingers to his face, dried blood flaked off onto them. He leveraged himself off the couch to go clean it off, because Bucky would pester him to do it otherwise. He was wildly annoyed about it, a reaction that didn’t make much sense but he didn’t fight against. “What happened?” Bucky asked again, reaching for Steve as he passed. 

“It doesn’t matter. It’s none of your business,” Steve retorted. He regretted it instantly, as he always did whenever he snapped at Bucky, but his own pride and anger at the day left him unable to take it back.

Bucky looked hurt, which was perhaps worse--anger he could stand, anger he might actually relish right then, but hurting Bucky wasn’t something he could ever take. 

“It does matter, though,” he said, his voice quiet and even. It was hard to make Bucky lose his temper, hard to get him to ever show anger. Steve should have known that by then but his calmness just rankled against the edges of Steve’s own close-to-overflowing emotions.

“Just leave me alone, please, for once.” The words were pleading for all that his tone was annoyed.

Bucky dropped his hand and let Steve pass by. “Why’ve you got to be so defensive all the time?” he asked, frustration threading his voice. It was the closest Steve would get to wanted. To what he expected. Annoyance. Derision. Pity. Even after all these years, he expected it around every corner, every time he let his guard down like this. One bad move and it would be his, pulled out from Bucky piece by piece until neither of them could stand it anymore.

His answer was a shrug because he suddenly felt deflated and entirely unsure what to say or how to fix this. It wasn’t even major, but it felt like it was. 

He ended up leaving the apartment all together, which was probably the entirely wrong response but he couldn’t help it. The door slammed shut behind him, a wholly unintentional move that simply added to the moment. 

He scrubbed the blood off his face using the window of the closed post office to see what he was doing, and then ended up sitting on the bottom step outside his old apartment building. He had nowhere else to go and his feet had carried him there without him even really meaning to. It was familiar ground retrod entirely out of habit. 

He stayed there until the light started to fade and it got too cold. It was long enough for his mind to catapult through every scenario, none of them good--Bucky would be gone when he got home. Bucky would insist he leave. Bucky would let him stay because he was a good person, but they would both retreat into separate lives lived adjacent to one another. Bucky would be angry and never get over it. Bucky would be angry and get over it but feel sorry for him. Bucky would---

Bucky would open the door as Steve approached, watching his last few shuffling steps. He would stand and watch, silent, as Steve kicked off his cold shoes and then retreated to the bathroom to wash his hands and face. He felt dragged down by his own emotions. He felt emptied out and like he had just cried even though he hadn’t. He felt simply tired.

When he emerged, Bucky had put food on the table for him. Steve sat down before it silently, because he had no idea how to break this tension, how to even begin to apologize for the last months, his anger and despondency that that evening was only one example of.

Bucky flipped through a book on the couch as Steve ate, the food and the growing warmth in his extremities helping him feel just a bit better. He waited until Steve was finished before standing up and approaching.

He stopped behind Steve and then, to his shock, leaned over and wrapped around him from the back. Bucky was kind, so Steve shouldn’t have expected cruelty. The food was more than he deserved but Bucky took care of lots of people all the time. Steve was no different. He had expected words after, though, whatever form they came in. Not this, not Bucky’s warmth against his back, touch so freely given despite it all.

“Don’t do that. Don’t just leave.” Bucky voice was low near Steve’s ear, and the position couldn’t be comfortable but he stayed here anyway, bent and surrounding him.

“I’m sorry,” Steve said, and his voice came out broken and tired and he couldn’t even be ashamed of it because it was true, too true.

“You should be,” was the forgiving response. And that was it. That was all Bucky had to give him and it was all Bucky expected from Steve, small in its simplicity and no less a relief for it. An apology was enough. 

Steve brought his hands up to rest against Bucky’s arm across his chest. His breath was warm against Steve’s neck as Steve turned his face into Bucky’s upper arm, the line of it over his shoulder as it formed a V at the elbow up to Steve’s other side. 

“Stop being so stubborn and maybe next time we won’t get so annoyed with one another,” Bucky said, his other hand wrapping around his own elbow to effectively hold Steve to the chair.

“You’re not a saint yourself, you know.”

He felt Bucky’s shrug around him. “No one’s as bad as you, Rogers.” 

“Probably not,” Steve admitted, unable to stop an emerging smile against the skin of Bucky’s bare arm. Bucky’s answering laugh was small but at least existed, a precious thing. 

The next morning the sky was gray and the light dim from the clouds in the early morning. Snow fell off and on, little scatters of it like it couldn’t quite make up its mind whether it wanted to fall. Mr. Sanderson two floors down was listening to crackly piano music through his old radio, and it floated up through the window Steve had opened just a crack to try to get the crisp air to flow through the stuffy apartment. He sat far enough away to not be shivering in it, the quilt from the bed wrapped around his shoulders as he perched on one of the kitchen chairs he had very carefully, silently brought into the bedroom so he could sit in better light without leaving the room or having to sit on the cold floor. He was watching out the window at nothing in particular, sketchbook forgotten on the floor beside him. His mind was still, at least, though he felt the persistent and unexplained worry that was his constant companion regardless.

There was a quiet shuffling behind him as Bucky rolled in the bed. Steve turned in time to see Bucky’s hand grasping out, and he made a discontented mumbling sound as his wandering hand didn’t find Steve. He couldn’t help but smile at it, the slight furrow that crossed Bucky’s brow in sleepy confusion.

“What’re you doing over there?” Bucky asked shortly, his voice quiet with sleep and his eyes still closed. He let his hand settle back against the mattress, his fingers lightly curled against the white of the sheet. 

“Didn’t want to wake you,” Steve answered. He turned back toward the window, and it was snowing again. 

“Took the good blanket,” Bucky grumbled, curling in on his side under the blanket Steve had left covering him.

“Sorry,” he said, not sounding very repentant at all, he would admit. 

“Come back. You don’t have a job. I’m cold. It’s still too early. Perfect day to be lazy.” 

Bucky reached out toward Steve again, his hand hovering. For no particular reason, Steve stayed where he was, watching, waiting to see how long it would take for Bucky to open his eyes. 

“Hate you,” Bucky said as he finally levered himself up. The blanket fell around his waist and his shirt was twisted around his torso, and Steve found it much more endearing than he ought to. 

“Liar,” Steve said as he moved just enough to let Bucky’s grasping hand find his shirt. 

“Yeah, I know. That’s the biggest lie of all of them.” Steve couldn’t stop from flushing at those words. They never said it, really, how much they meant to one another. To say it was to make it too real, too breakable in a world where it already was fragile and secretive. It needed to be held close with care. They did it in other ways, or at least Steve tried to, although he’d been failing for a long time now. 

Bucky didn’t give Steve a chance to come up with a response, just yanked him sideways suddenly, pulling Steve straight onto him. He let Steve’s momentum push him back as well so that they ended up in the middle of the bed, Steve’s legs hanging off the end and his arm at an awkward angle between their chests.

“Thanks. Real graceful,” he said, laughing. He dislodged his arm and made to move back into a more comfortable position, but Bucky let him only get so far as rearranging his limbs and the blanket into less constricting places before he pulled him back in close so he was still mostly on top of him, just to the left of center.

“Stay. No more leaving.” It was clearly meant to be said in jest but Bucky couldn’t hide the thread of hesitation in the words. It was enough for guilt to lodge itself in Steve, and more than enough for him to force himself to relax against him.

“No more leaving,” Steve agreed, and he felt Bucky relax as well. Maybe the words weren’t enough to make it a reality, not in every way Bucky meant, from physical to otherwise, but they would help anyway. They were a promise Steve intended keep.

They stayed like that, silent, as Bucky stared out the window at their feet and Steve looked unseeing at the wall. Bucky kept pulling gently at Steve’s hair, rearranging it and wrapping it around his fingers before letting go again. It was an unconscious and idle movement that was strangely comforting.

“You’re still awake, right?” Bucky asked nearly half an hour later.

“Yeah.”

“Want to have sex?”

Steve pushed himself up onto his elbows to look Bucky in the face. “Are you serious?” he asked, though the mirth dancing in Bucky’s eyes told him all he needed to know. It was a joke meant to break the quiet. It was meant to get Steve to relax the rest of the way, that little bit that still infused his muscles and kept his mind whirling. 

“Nah, you know me, Stevie. I wouldn’t--” He was cut off, breath still in his throat as Steve rolled his hips against Bucky’s, friction through material. “You know it wasn’t a real suggestion, right?” he continued like he hadn’t lost the end of his previous sentence. 

Steve pushed himself up to sitting, straddling Bucky with his fingers gently trailing against his shirt. He shrugged, a grin on his face. “Seemed like a fine idea anyway.” 

“You--” Bucky cut himself off this time, something like amazement in his eyes that Steve didn’t know what to do with and caught him off-guard because he hadn’t done anything to warrant it. Before he could think on it further, though, even try to parse it, Bucky was sitting up and his lips were on his, his hands on his lower back under his shirt and pulling him impossibly closer. It was faster than Steve had banked on but all the more exciting for it. 

Bucky nudged him, shifting their legs so Steve could be pushed onto his back, his head at the foot of the bed now.

“I’m going to give you so much sex you’ll know the joke next time,” Bucky said, wedging himself between Steve’s legs, pushing his shirt up in increments as his mouth trailed over his stomach. 

“That makes no sense,” Steve said. “Would--” His breath hitched as Bucky pushed his waistband just low enough to tease. “You’d rather it be a joke?” he asked, when he got air back into his lungs. 

“I’m good for anything that gets us here,” Bucky answered. He nudged at Steve’s hips to get him to lift them up so he could pull his pajama bottoms and underwear off. He settled back into a crouch between Steve’s legs, pulling his own shirt up and off and tossing it aside. 

“You make zero sense,” Steve said. Then: “Get your pants off.” 

“So demanding,” Bucky grinned at him, running a hand over Steve’s erection just enough that he had to fight not to arch up into his palm. He let go and obeyed, though, ungracefully fumbling out of his pants. 

Now Steve was the one left lopsided in still his shirt, so he sat up long enough to pull it off, Bucky watching as he resettled, before he fell back again onto the bed. 

“Come here.” He reached for Bucky, any hesitance completely gone, letting himself just be for a moment. “No more joking.” 

“Right. Completely serious now,” Bucky said, lowering himself to meet Steve’s mouth. “No jokes.” 

“Stop talking,” Steve said into Bucky’s mouth. He kissed him hard until they were both panting. He touched until he didn’t know where his fingertips ended, until Bucky was heat and touch and quiet whimpers against skin. He pushed until Bucky was in him and around him, a heavy weight he didn’t want to ever leave.

It was snowing and it was cold and Bucky breathed his name against his skin as he came, Steve not far behind him, stickiness across his stomach and chest heaving and stunned pleasure coursing through his body. 

“See, no more joking,” Bucky said after, still a bit breathless as he sprawled beside Steve still wrong-way on the bed. 

“God, be quiet,” Steve answered, shoving weakly at his shoulder. 

Bucky rolled onto his stomach, covering Steve’s left side with warmth and undoubtedly going to put his arm to sleep. He couldn’t make himself care at the moment. 

“Just long enough to sleep.” Bucky spoke the words into the bed, his arm coming up across Steve’s body to pull him in closer. “Gotta get up soon anyway.” 

Steve didn’t answer. He let Bucky drift off into a doze, not fully asleep but something near. He stared at the ceiling and gave into the feeling of Bucky against him and the safety in that. It would be enough for now.

*****

It took two days for Steve to get Bucky alone after he pulled him out of that Hydra facility, and then only because Peggy intervened.

They were in a meeting with a group of men who had little care about what Steve had to say. He was there purely because someone or another thought he should be but not that he was worthy of any actual time--an observer, and an inattentive one at that. It was boring and long and useless, and Steve was antsy and distracted, exhausted beyond anything else. “There’s an empty old house five minutes north,” she said to him quietly, pulling him aside during a short break hours into it. Her touch on his elbow was soft, her fingers curling gently as if to hold him in place. “It’s safe as anything can be here. Why don’t you go get some rest? Take Barnes with you so one of you can keep watch.”

And she must have known that neither of them was in any state to be watchful right then, but his relief for the suggestion was so great that he wanted to wrap his arms around her in thanks. His had to swallow against the thickness in his throat just to say, “But we’re not finished here.”

“Oh, they’ll just prattle on for awhile longer and then no one will come out of this with any real plan. Tomorrow, maybe, they’ll settle on something. Don’t worry; I will fill you in. Go,” she nodded toward the door with her chin. “Go find Barnes and tell him Peggy’ll be after him if he doesn’t get you to sleep some.” Her smile was soft and sad, and Steve knew he should say something but he couldn’t think of what to say to make this right. 

“Go,” she said again when all he could do was stare at her in indecision. She squeezed his elbow once before letting go, that smile still there. She then turned to go back to the group, leaving him to make his escape. 

He did, if only because to not do so felt like it would disappoint her and because he didn’t know what else to do. He wanted to go, of course, but going felt like admitting something to her that he didn’t think he should be admitting. He went anyway.

The air was crisp and the light fading when he finally found Bucky, sitting against a building while Dernier and Jones spoke quickly in French to one another just feet away. Bucky was looking toward them but clearly not paying attention, his gaze distant. It snapped to Steve when he got closer, so he was alert to his surroundings anyway.

The others hadn’t noticed him and Steve was oddly reluctant to draw their attention, so he just raised his eyebrows at Bucky in invitation. He nodded and stood up, brushing off his pants. “Good bye, boys. I’m off,” he said as Steve ducked around another building in case the other two looked his way. 

Bucky joined him silently, and they remained silent through the whole walk north. Thankfully the house wasn’t difficult to find, barely hidden behind a grouping of trees. It had clearly been left by its owners and the front door was unlocked. There was evidence of other soldiers having trampled through, probably for the kitchen judging by the way the prints lead to the back of the house, and Steve felt guilty at his presence but not enough to leave the steady peace of it. 

The stairs creaked as he followed Bucky upstairs, his fingers trailing lightly up the dusty bannister. This was clearly a family with some money. The house wasn’t huge but it was large enough for the two floors, and it was well-furnished. A picture hung crooked at the top of the stairs, and Steve paused to straighten it out. A painting, two young children and a dog. He wondered if they had lived here, or if they were simply random subjects. 

Bucky ducked in and out of the rooms arrayed off the hallway, and finally settled on one. When Steve followed him in a moment later, he was squinting out the window. It was a bedroom, a guest one judging by the decorating. It was impersonal but homey, so it was either that or its owner was a sparse decorator that had cleaned before leaving. 

He stopped just inside the doorway and neither of them said anything, until finally Steve couldn’t take it and broke the silence, a simple, “Buck?” He couldn’t tell what Bucky was feeling, even when he saw his face. He couldn’t tell if he was angry or nervous or worried or hurt. Steve had done crazy things, uninformed, stupid, reckless things, and Bucky had been hurt so badly. It might it all be different now. It _had_ to be all different now. Steve knew that. He knew not to expect otherwise, but couldn’t help but feel a gaping ache at the loss anyway. 

Steve could see Bucky nod, resolute, like he was gearing up for something, before he turned to face Steve. “I--” he stopped, his voice breaking on even that simple syllable. He cleared his throat, then said, “It’s different. You’re different.” 

Steve swallowed. “I’m sorry.” And it was true, wildly so. He had wanted this, all of it, Erskine and the promise of his serum, to be in Europe beside Bucky. He had wanted it so badly and he couldn’t deny that and wouldn’t change those simple facts for the world, but he was sorry. He was sorry he was doing what he knew Bucky didn’t want him to do. He wasn’t at home and safe, but he didn’t _want_ to be at home and safe. And he was different. Bucky wasn’t wrong. He was the same but he was different. It wouldn’t be the same again, even if this body didn’t last. 

Bucky cleared his throat again, shook his head. “No, it’s… it’s good. You’re healthy. That’s good. Carter said… she said it’s done good things for you.” His eyes darted over his body and away again, settling somewhere between them. “Just’ll take some getting used to, that’s all.” 

Steve didn’t know Bucky and Peggy had ever talked, let alone about him, but that was a question for another time. As he watched, Bucky bit his bottom lip. He seemed unable to settle, his eyes searching over the room periodically as Steve watched in silence, unable to come up with anything to say. “Bucky…” he started, trailing off. 

Bucky shook his head, cutting him off. “Nah, it’s all right. It’s fine.” He looked at Steve and away, and to Steve’s horror his next breath was deep and shaky. He looked close to tears, and Steve couldn’t think of the last time he saw Bucky cry. That time after Steve’s mom died, maybe, and Steve couldn’t stop crying for what felt like hours, hiccuping sobs of it. 

He took a step closer. Two steps, then stopped. “Bucky, I’m...” he had to stop to clear his own throat this time. “Can I touch you?” He wanted to reach out right then, wanted to pull and hold tight, but this was different. It had to be different. He had to respect that. He had to expect refusal. This was different. 

But to his surprise, Bucky nodded. He stayed where he was, didn’t move an inch, but didn’t flinch as Steve cautiously approached, reaching out slow enough for Bucky to duck away if he changed his mind. He didn’t, though, and suddenly Steve couldn’t resist it anymore. He took that last step closer too quickly, practically crashed into Bucky, who barely swayed at the impact. His arms wrapped tightly around him. It was the same. It was different. It was everything. 

Bucky’s hands came up and clutched at his back, fingers scrambling for purchase. “God, Steve. You--”

Steve didn’t get to hear what he was, what he had done. He was too busy trying to stop the flow of words coming out of his mouth, the tears that he couldn’t stop from suddenly overflowing. “I’m sorry I’m late. I’m sorry I didn’t make it in time,” he found himself saying. It was too much truth, too much everything. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

“Jesus, no, you--” Bucky cut himself off this time. “Not your fault. Not you. Never your fault.”

He pulled Steve in closer somehow, even though two seconds ago Steve would have said it was impossible. His face was wet against Steve’s neck, and wasn’t that a marvel, the way they still fit despite it all. 

“Never your fault,” he repeated. His hand wound into Steve’s hair, holding him so tightly in place it almost hurt. “You’re perfect. You’re the best thing for me. Don’t apologize. It’s never your fault.” 

And Steve could barely answer his throat was so thick with tears, but he had to. “I love you,” he said, into the little room that wasn’t theirs but served for now, into the silence of the house, into the countryside, into the war that was the opposite of silence. He knew he shouldn’t. It wasn’t done. It wasn’t right. It was too fragile and needed too much care, but he had to. Bucky had to know. “I love you so much.” 

He couldn’t tell if it was a laugh or a sob against the skin of his neck. It was a breathless hitch, so small but such a tremendous effect. “I love you, God help me,” Bucky responded, his voice muffled by the material of Steve’s collar.

*****

He watched him fall and it was anything but quiet. It was the rattling of the train and the screech of metal on metal. It was the air and wind whipping around him fall, the cold of the mountain. It was the harsh scream. It was the utter, terrifying, roaring blankness within him that froze him in place. He didn’t save him. He fell. It was wrong. It was so wrong.

He watched Bucky fall, and he watched him fall again, and he watched him fall for years. He went down with it, and it was anything but quiet.


End file.
